


Your Hands in Mine: Pokemon

by Brushtale



Series: Your Hands in Mine [2]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: Aesthetics, Ambiguous Characters, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Hands, Holding Hands, No Dialogue, Really just a lot about hands, blurbs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-03 21:40:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20459903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brushtale/pseuds/Brushtale
Summary: Part of an ongoing Hand-Holding project. Not necessarily romance. Requests for new chapters accepted from all Pokemon gens!"Her fingers were fueled by curiosity, toddling over the lines of his palm and the curves of his knuckles like a newborn puppy discovering hands for the first time; those tanned tools of painting, now suddenly of interest in their state of uncleanliness."Various Pokemon trainers hold hands in different ways. For some it's a new touch, for others it's familiar and grounding, for few, it's a terrifying experience. Each pair of hands is unique, and says something different.





	1. Gladion & Guzma

Rain was falling in a heavy drizzle that was familiar to Po Town, but no less unpleasant. He bowed his head under the weather, using a brisk pace to get to the distant mansion as quickly as possible. Reaching the indoor hideout didn’t improve things much, only providing walls against the wind and a roof against the rain. Nothing would quite keep the sting of scratches from biting at his skin.

He hid it as best he could, forcing his scowl to look as moody as possible to hide the pain, all the while desperately hoping that the few zippers and seams he’d added would make the gashes rent in his clothing look intentional.

No one could know.

He’d always thought he could handle his partner’s fits of insane rage, to keep them quiet…to keep that Pokémon’s _existence_ quiet…but this had been the first time his lack of fear had come to bite him. Now he was inwardly cursing himself for having been careless, and praying that he could keep these wounds invisible.

_No one could know._

He thought his façade was doing decently, at first. No grunts looked his way twice, some not even looking once. But…they weren’t who he was worried about. He’d almost walked by him, almost gotten to a hallway where he’d be out of sight and safe and able to actually breathe again… _Almost._ Just when that man and his shock of white hair was out of his peripheral vision, a grip like lightning yanked him back by his wrist.

Terror was the animal instinct that drove him to pull back to absolutely no avail, inevitably having to turn a shaky eye upward at the iron clamp that shackled him in place. The hand was that of a titan, his own lean arm all but disappearing beneath its crushing grip. It was resolute. It was…(he tugged again feebly)…it was _undefeatable_. The realization seeped in quickly, that there was no chance of escape now from the dominant vice that held him. He felt raw power coursing against his wrist, flinching at the press of steely tendons and knowing at any moment that they could break his bones. The closeness of the grip, the discomforting throb of pain from the abuse, was only a warning… Those hands spoke in a single commanding voice.

‘_You’re going to stay right here.’_

So he did. What other choice did he have? Stifling a tremble at the impending destruction that one fist held, he stayed his ground, and waited with bated breath to be let free. But he wasn’t. The grip didn’t loosen when it turned his hand over, revealing the tips of raw scratches and a lace of older scars. It didn’t lose strength to sparing a thumb, just long enough to trace the contour of cuts with a raspy touch. It didn’t give any ground when a second hand pulled back the boy’s sleeve, leaving him helpless to watch a further multitude of wounds meet the dim light.

It was then when the boy fully realized…this man _was_ destruction incarnate, as he frequently boasted. Even with his terror mounting, under that monster grip, he wasn’t afraid so much for his own young life…but at that moment…with his scars exposed and the truth lingering just under their surface, he felt as though everything he knew and cherished in the world was a finger’s flex away from obliteration.

And then the grip was gone.

The sudden release of pressure was so unexpected that he left his arm hovering in the air for several seconds, his eyes flickering in search of even a faint sign of danger. There wasn’t. With a quiet laugh, that man clasped hands with him, suddenly enough to make the boy flinch, but briefly enough to not scare him away. Power still thrummed through those fingers, but it lie at bay. That hand spoke a kinder language when it slipped away.

‘_Get those scratches taken care of, kid.’_

He didn’t remember how he found the hallway after his release, he only remembered his back hitting the wall and grateful breaths returning slowly…his hand was his own again and it was whole and unharmed… That man with all the power of a monster chose not to destroy him…chose care instead of carnage… His head tipped back against the wall in disbelief.

He’d survived a brush with a deadly storm, because…the thunder was on his side.


	2. Ilima & Mina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *returns with the bucket of sugar* Ya'll know what time it is. To be honest, I don't get the impression that this ship is very popular? But I think they're cute together, ship or no ship, so here we are.

She had surprised him since the very beginning. Before they even met, he was surprised there was a new trial captain on Poni Island, and he was surprised when his work allowed him away long enough to meet her. He was surprised by her appearance, how serenely messy, and odd yet familiar she looked, with paint splattered across the bar of her nose and in her hair, feeling like he himself had shown up far too clean in contrast. He was surprised perhaps most of all when she asked him to paint.

It was a simple enough hobby, one that came with calling a Smeargle partner. But it was after some time of effort and brushstrokes together on the same canvas when both stepped back to admire the progress… And she surprised him again, by offering for his hand. He let her take it.

He only knew her hands by how she knew his; how she turned and traced them gently in her palms, exploring every surface, each of her fingers moving so delicately - leaving touches so softly - that they didn’t dare smear the paint on his skin. Yet in her gracefulness, she was clumsy. As slender and delicate as her hands were, and as light as her master painter’s touch was, she was bold; her fingers were fueled by curiosity, toddling over the lines of his palm and the curves of his knuckles like a newborn puppy discovering hands for the first time; those tanned tools of painting, now suddenly of interest in their state of uncleanliness. She circled blotches of green-blue paint with fingertips, running a steady touch down each stream of turquoise that nestled its way into cracks in his caramel skin. And each touch and motion and gesture she made towards paint left behind was mirrored by the markings on her own hands.

The paint spots on her hands, stained far longer than his own, bumbled in and out of sight behind his palms and provided a softly scratchy matte feel as they scampered back and forth. And for quite some time, he hadn’t a clue what they were looking for. Yet whatever it was, whatever quality had been inspected for, whatever secrets lie hidden in his fingers from even him…she found, and seemed content with. Cheerily, softly, (and with a clap of pinkish paint dust) she clapped her hands around his one more time and released him…

…Only for her to place a worn brush back between his fingers, twining her own bird-thin fingers through his only briefly. Just a spot of praise, just a patch of advice, just a dot of paint on brush and hand and clothes and all else…and he smiled, her colors still dusting his skin. And back to the painting they both returned.


End file.
